


The Werewolf Kennedys

by vaenes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Politics, Baseball Player Derek, Bathroom Sex, Bickering, Bottom Derek Hale, Intercrural Sex, Love/Hate, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Political Campaigns, Porn With Plot, Recreational Drug Use, Scott McCall is a Gift, Top Stiles Stilinski, it's not really described though, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 15:35:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2856080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaenes/pseuds/vaenes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifteen years ago, when Talia won the Senate seat that had been recently vacated by her father, the first supernatural member of Congress, the Post ran a headline calling the Hales “the werewolf Kennedys”. The backlash was immediate. Supernatural activists decried the label of otherness, while pro-hunter groups scoffed at the comparison in the first place. The Hales themselves were conspicuously silent over the controversy, save for Talia’s brother Peter’s proclamation, during his Florida gubernatorial campaign a few years later, that “it’d be more accurate to call the Kennedys ‘the human Hales’”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Werewolf Kennedys

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://vaenes.tumblr.com)

Stiles has been looking for Scott for almost 20 minutes now, which is honestly unacceptable. The purpose of being back in your hometown with your best friend for the summer is to be able to easily find said best friend at all times. 

For example, at a fundraiser hosted by Congressman John Stilinski of California’s 5th district, for New York’s senior Senator—and recent presidential nominee—Talia Hale.

Fifteen years ago, when Talia won the Senate seat that had been recently vacated by her father, the first supernatural member of Congress, the _Post_ ran a headline calling the Hales “the werewolf Kennedys”. The backlash was immediate. Supernatural activists decried the label of otherness, while pro-hunter groups scoffed at the comparison in the first place. The Hales themselves were conspicuously silent over the controversy, save for Talia’s brother Peter’s proclamation, during his Florida gubernatorial campaign a few years later, that “it’d be more accurate to call the Kennedys ‘the human Hales’”.

He won that campaign, and the next two campaigns after that. This would have been surprising, if it wasn’t Florida. 

Peter may have been right, though. The Hales have steadily worked themselves up through the highest echelons of American society. There are Hales in D.C., of course,  but also on Wall Street, in Silicon Valley, in Hollywood. Laura’s startup went public last fall, and its IPO was the third-largest in tech history. Malia, Peter’s illegitimate daughter (and, oh, wasn’t that a scandal), has two Emmy nominations and one Golden Globe. Even Cora, who Stiles considers to be the family's black sheep, is a UNICEF ambassador. She's spending this summer working with orphanages in Peru.

And Derek, well, Stiles hasn’t seen Derek in a year, ever since he left to go play baseball at Harvard. He’d been scouted during his sophomore year and recruited the next, as if he wouldn’t have gotten in off of his name, and the wing in the law school bearing it, alone.

So of course, when Stiles finally spots Scott’s newly cropped hair by the crudités, he's holding a conversation with Derek Hale.

Derek looks good. But then, Derek always looks good. The Hale family as a whole, in addition to being political royalty, is absurdly photogenic. He seems to have fully committed to the stubble he’d started to wear halfway through senior year, to enthusiastic approval from the female (and let’s face it, the male—Stiles was certainly not the only guy to have undergone a sexual awakening due to Derek Hale’s general existence) populations of their elite prep school, as well as from some of the shadier DC insider blogs.

There’d been a Britney-esque countdown to Derek’s legal age on one of them until Stiles had gotten Danny to help him repeatedly spam its servers until it was taken down. The Kate situation had been supremely hushed up (and Stiles didn’t even want to know the extent of the back-room dealings that had resulted in Kate’s near-exile to Mexico, where she was serving as a low ranking aide to the Guadalajara consulate), so the site didn’t know about Derek’s history, but that didn’t make the whole thing any less gross.

Scott seems to have spotted him back. He waves at Stiles, interrupting his surreptitious recon work. It’s too late to turn back without making his avoidance tactics obvious, so Stiles steels himself and approaches the two of them with the aim of pulling Scott away as soon as he can.

“So, Derek, how’ve you been?” Scott is saying cheerfully when he walks up. Stiles still cannot get over the fact that his best friend and the second worst person ever (Jackson’s uncontested for first) are, in Scott’s words, “actually pretty chill now”. 

“Good. Well, tired, actually. College ball’s intense.”

The pleasantness of their exchange is actively discomfiting.

“Oh yeah, Stiles and I watched you in the playoffs. You guys really should have gone all the way. We both agreed, that last call was cheap.”

Derek glances at Stiles in surprise.

Stiles shoots Scott a _look_. Scott pretends not to notice.

Betrayed, Stiles manages to mutter, “Yeah, well, I’ve always liked the sport.” He’s also always liked Derek in a baseball uniform, but he doesn’t say that.

Derek is still looking at Stiles, and now they’re having some kind of weird staredown. Stiles thinks Derek is maybe trying to communicate with his eyebrows how much he hates him, so he counters by furrowing his own.

Scott clears his throat, startling both of them. “Well, I’m gonna go talk to Lydia for a bit. I’ll leave you two to catch up. Nice to see you again, Derek,” he says, giving Derek a polite nod and flashing Stiles a sheepish smile.

Derek grunts out, “Take care, Scott,” in that dumb caveman-jock way of his, Stiles crooks his fingers in a half-hearted wave, and then Scott wanders off in search of California’s First Daughter, leaving Derek and Stiles in a very un-companionable silence. It’s not Stiles’ ideal choice of how to spend the night.

“I heard you’re going to Brown,” Derek finally says, expressionless, because of course he would never be bothered to congratulate Stiles on anything. He probably looks down on Stiles for going to a “lesser Ivy”, the prestige whore.

“Yeah, well, I thought it’d be a nice change from the rich, pretentious, I’m-only-here-because-of-my-last-name-and-my-parents’-bank-account assholes I encounter on a daily basis,” Stiles scoffs in response.

Derek flinches, just barely, something that looks like hurt flickering across his face. Stiles pushes down the pulse of shame threatening his conscience. He can’t feel bad when Derek gets his feelings hurt.

Beside, his bruised ego doesn’t last long. Mere moments pass before he’s sneering back, “You’re deluding yourself if you think there won’t be trust-fund brats there, except now they’ll all be lazy stoners too. Although, I guess that means you’ll fit in just fine.”

“And stop pretending you don’t fall into that nepotism-enabled asshole category too. Your dad’s a congressman, not the mayor of this podunk town in the middle of nowhere anymore.”

Before Stiles can respond with something even more cutting, he feels his phone buzz to indicate a new message.

_Your 1st convo in over a year and he’s already pulling out the big guns? D must really miss you._

Stiles looks up to see Lydia smiling smugly at him from a few feet away, where she’s been eavesdropping, as usual. Scott is giving him a big thumbs up. Stiles gives them an extra-murderous death glare and turns pointedly away from Derek.

Thankfully, he’s saved by Parrish, his dad’s chief of staff.

“Oh, thank god,” Stiles says, as Parrish leads him to a corner of the room. “You have no idea how close I was to murdering one of America’s sweethearts. And that would have really hurt Dad’s re-election chances, so—”

“Stiles,” Parrish interrupts, “Please shut up for two seconds.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows, but closes his mouth.

“There is going to be a very important announcement, hopefully sometime soon,” Parrish whispers.

“What, is someone running for president?”

Parrish sighs. “Stiles, can you please—“

“Sorry! Sorry, that was two seconds!”

Parrish rolls his eyes. “I’m serious, Stiles, this is important.”

“I know, I know, it’s important, clearly, but it’s just like, can you believe him? A year without contact, and that’s what he opens with?”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Um, Derek, of course.”

“Right,” Parrish sighs again, “Look, Stiles, I know your dad hasn’t been able to see you much since he got back here for his constituent visit, but he has something he needs to discuss with you, and I just wanted to make sure that you think about it closely and carefully, and, most of all, _impartially_ , when he does.”

“Hey, you know me. My senior superlative was ‘Most Impartial’.”

Parrish just keeps staring at him intently. It’s starting to make Stiles uncomfortable. “Okay, yeah I get it, I’ll listen to Dad, whatever he wants to talk about.”

“Thanks, Stiles,” Parrish says, and he steps back into the mingling crowd.

Stiles has absolutely no idea what that was all about, which is pretty par for the course when it comes to Parrish. The vagueness is kind of reminding him of when he found out his dad was moving them to D.C., or that Mom was in the hospital, and _fuck_ , Stiles needs to get out of this room.

He knows Town Hall, remembers it from when he and Scott used to run around playing hide-and-seek while his dad sat in conference rooms going over budgets and plans. So he knows all the best hiding spots, knows about the bathroom on the second floor next to the elevators, the only bathroom with a window in the entire building. 

Stiles has been in this room full of politicians and people he hasn’t seen since middle school for way too long. He needs to take the edge off somehow.

So he slips out the side door, walks down the corridor and up the staircase, leans on the bathroom door with his right shoulder, pushing it open, only to be met with an eyeful of Derek Hale. Shirtless. As in not wearing a shirt. It’s kind of the opposite of taking the edge off, if he’s being honest.

They both stand there gaping, although Stiles probably looks like an unattractive guppy, whereas Derek’s bunny teeth just add _adorable_ to the list of adjectives one might use to describe him. Those other adjectives include _irritating, entitled, arrogant,_ _infuriating_ and oh right, _currently shirtless_.

“You don’t have a shirt on,” Stiles blurts out before his brain can catch up.

Apparently, this knocks Derek out of his daze as well, because he rolls his eyes with a staggering amount of disdain.

“Astute as always, Stilinski,” he drawls.

“But—why?” And, oh, Stiles is just sounding more and more intelligent as this ill-advised conversation progresses.

“Some lady spilled her drink on it, so I’m changing into an extra one Erica brought,” Derek explains, holding up a light blue button-up and beginning to pull it on, which, _what a shame_.  “Why are _you_ here?”

“You should’ve locked the door.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t think anyone would come up here, seeing as it’s closed off for the event.”

By now, Stiles has recomposed himself. He shrugs as nonchalantly as possible, shoulders past Derek towards the window. “Needed some stress relief, let off some steam, you know how it is.”

Derek gives him a small nod. “Yeah, actually, I know what you mean,” he says in a quiet voice.

See, that’s one thing Stiles can appreciate about Derek. He grew up in politics too, he gets the constant scrutiny, the endless schmoozing, the uncomfortable suits and fake smiles propped up by empty promises.

He understands.

To a point. “Is that—did you bring _drugs_?” Derek splutters, shocked enough that his fingers stumble over the last two buttons on his shirt.

Stiles pauses, holding the joint he slipped into his pocket this morning between his thumb and forefinger. “Yeah, of course. Who wouldn’t,” he scoffs, then considers for a moment and asks, genuinely curious, “Did you want some?”

Derek’s been at college for a year. Who knows what he’s been doing in that time.

“No! Why would you ever think—” Derek starts. Ah, so nothing’s changed, then.

“Just being polite,” Stiles says nonchalantly. He flicks open the lighter Scott got him for a graduation present. (Along with a metric fuckton of weed and an R2-D2 bong. Has Stiles mentioned recently that Scott is the greatest best friend ever?)

“Well, you don’t have to look so scandalized,” Stiles says, bringing the joint to his lips, “Even your mom supports legalization. I don’t know why you have to be so uncool about it. 

“It’s still illegal! I can’t believe you! This is a very important event, _and_ this building is non-smoking!”

“Woah, slow down with the exclamation points, Der. Besides, there’s a window right here,” Stiles says. To make his point, he lights up and takes a long pull. He holds it in for a bit, sucking in a deep breath, before leaning halfway out the window and slowly exhaling. He watches the plume of smoke dissolve and waft through the air, feeling his shoulders already start to lose some of their tension. Man, California weed is really something else.

A little reluctantly, he moves his body back inside. He catches Derek quickly glance up, eyes landing on Stiles’ lips for a brief second, before he averts his gaze again, finally staring at the paper towel dispenser like he’s trying to set it on fire with the power of his eyebrows. His lips are drawn in a thin line, but there’s a faint blush staining the back of his neck. Stiles grins.

“Were you looking at my butt?”

“No,” Derek mutters, but his neck only gets pinker. It’s _delightful_.

“Yes you were, dude. You were totally staring at my ass!”

Derek _growls_ , low in his throat, and yeah, Stiles would be lying if he said that didn’t do anything to him. He grins wider and steps closer, opens his mouth to make another quip, but Derek turns around faster than Stiles can react, pinning him hard against the wall, close enough that all he can see are Derek’s ridiculous Pantone-color-of-the-year eyes and all he can feel is Derek’s heavy hand on his shoulder and Derek’s hot breath ghosting against his cheek.

Okay, it’s been tilting its way onto the table all day, and ever since Stiles barged in while Derek was changing, well, Stiles has seen porn more subtle. Doesn’t mean he’s not surprised when there are suddenly lips pressed hotly against his, a tongue working insistently in between. He’s always surprised when it comes to requited boners, even when there’s extensive historical evidence pointing to their validity.

Initial surprise notwithstanding, Stiles knows how to respond. His body melts against Derek’s hands, which are _everywhere_. Cupping his chin when Stiles starts to kiss back, tugging his hair when their tongues slip together, flickering at his collar, skimming down his sides, tangling into his fingers.

Then, just as suddenly as he began, Derek pulls back, Stiles instinctively chasing after his lips until he processes the loss of body heat and the rush of cool air that follows. Is Derek hurt? Did someone walk in? There’s no good reason to interrupt a makeout session as hot as what they just had going on. He opens his eyes in confusion, only to see Derek holding Stiles’ joint in his right hand and smirking. He walks over to the toilet, tosses it in, and flushes.

“What the fuck!” Stiles exclaims, “I barely even got to use that!”

Derek laughs. “You were always too easy,” he says.

Stiles whirls around, gets a hand fisted into the knot of Derek’s perfectly pressed satin tie.

“Fuck you, I’m not easy,” he means to shout, but it comes out quieter and lower than expected.

There’s a small thud as Derek’s ass hits the sink. Stiles hadn’t even realized that he’d been walking them back against it. He slides his hand down the length of the tie, watching Derek’s breath visibly hitch at the smooth motion, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down just the slightest bit. Stiles wants to put his _teeth_ on it.

“You sure about that?” Derek is whispering into his ear, but all Stiles’ stupid brain registers is the heel of Derek’s hand pressing lightly against the front of his dress pants. Stiles scowls and plants his hands either side of him, bracketing Derek in and pushing even farther into his space until he’s practically sitting on the sink counter.

Derek just smirks again, and starts to rub the hand on Stiles’ groin in small circles, fingers slipping up to undo his belt buckle. 

He makes no move to get further into Stiles’ pants, though, so Stiles makes a noise of frustration and shoves them down himself. It’s embarrassingly obvious how turned on he is, straining against the tight briefs he had to wear to fit into his tailored pants. Derek just looks appreciative though, skimming the pads of his fingers along Stiles’ thighs and gently rubbing two down the outline of his dick that’s probably visible from outer space.

After what feels like an eternity, Derek hooks his thumbs into the waistband and pulls, Stiles’ cock immediately springing to attention under Derek’s assessing gaze. He makes no move to touch it, though Stiles catches his tongue quickly flick out to wet his lips.

He’s about to either make a jab about Derek drooling for it or straight up beg to be touched, when Derek beats him to it, looks him straight in the eye and says, “It’s bigger than I remembered,” before finally putting that baseball player grip to use.

Stiles responds to the first touch of skin with a full-body shudder. “ _Fuck you, fuck you so hard,_ ” he repeats in between harsh gasps.

He tries to convey the sentiment as clearly as possible by biting into Derek’s bottom lip. 

Derek parts his lips and pants, “ _Go ahead,_ ” into Stiles’ mouth, a through line that travels down to Stiles’ dick and straight back up to basically short out his brain.

Stiles lets out a long, low moan, leaning his forehead against Derek’s, and okay, that could be construed as a little too intimate for whatever they’re doing right now, but Stiles can’t be held responsible for the words coming out of Derek’s mouth. He’s probably supposed to respond with another innuendo-filled quip, and he recognizes that Derek isn’t necessarily being literal, but all his traitorous mind can come up with is earnest and broken.

“I-I don’t have a condom,” he mumbles into Derek’s chin.

Derek huffs a laugh. “Don’t worry, I have a better idea.” He turns around suddenly so that he’s half leaning over the sink, ass out, and looks back with the _dirtiest_ grin Stiles has ever seen.

Stiles is trying to control his breathing, because who fucking _presents_ themselves in a public bathroom like this?

“I’m failing to see how this will solve the problem,” he finally grits out.

Derek just kinks an eyebrow, holding Stiles’ gaze as he slowly slides his own pants down, pulling a pair of tight black boxers off as well.

And if Stiles thought having Derek’s ass right in front of him was a problem while fully clothed, well, that was clearly _nothing_ compared to this.

It’s obviously perfect, and it makes Stiles think of ridiculous words like _supple_ , but anyone could see that. No, the worst part is that Stiles can not only imagine the things he could do with that butt, he also has vivid memories of them, of words exchanged in the back of a Camaro, of hurried touches alone in a baseball dugout.

He can see both of their reflections in the mirror, hair mussed, collars askew. Derek has his eyes closed and his mouth parted, like he’s high off of this, off of _Stiles_.

Stiles gulps, and then Derek is reaching back, pulling him closer and leading him by the dick to slot right between his thighs. He’s turning his head to meet Stiles’ mouth in an open-mouthed kiss that’s more hot breath and promise than anything else.

“Like this,” Derek gasps, and Stiles is lost. 

*** 

Five days later, on a soundstage in Ohio, Stiles is picturing what Derek looked like in that mirror as Talia Hale’s voice echoes through the microphone.

“This country is built on small-town values—,“ as he thrusts between Derek’s spread thighs.

“—who understands how much family means in the face of the worst adversity—,“ as Derek arches his back up into his Stiles’ chest.

“—above all, belief in the American people,” as he moans around Stiles’ fingers.

“That’s why, today, I’m so incredibly proud to introduce Representative John Stilinski as the next Vice President of the United States of America!”

Stiles smiles for the cameras in the front row. He doesn’t look towards Derek, standing ten feet to his left.

It’s going to be a long campaign.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I've been a huge fandom lurker for multiple years and through multiple fandoms, but I'm finally contributing/interacting, yay! I may or may not continue writing this AU, but either way, feedback of any kind is very appreciated!


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